Real

A day for not-naming,
for not-knowing.
And I shed the dream
like winter’s clothes.
His hand rests
on the thin soft skin
of the excavation,
tender.
And I’m hoping the storm
can’t catch me again.
Only my own bliss to seek.
You don’t ever need
to worry —
this lightning
can’t reach past
our stomping ground.
I remember.
And I forget —
we are deviant, yes,
but never devious.
We play at escape,
but all for the page.
And no one gets hurt
from pretend.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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